2: The Balancing Act

2: The Balancing Act

The wind was chill as it teased my bare thighs like glacial fingers groping for my pretty red panties as no human being would ever dare. I shivered and tugged at the pleated nylon material of my hem in apprehension of unsightly revelations to passerby, hoping I did not appear overtly vulgar for doing so. Stupid skirt.

“Now boarding.” Announced the loudspeaker of the ferry, as if every morning-heavy eye had been blinded by fatigue.

While taking care to avoid pebbles and garbage that would surely find a way beneath my delicate balance I shifted my Black Flag messenger bag (used to tote my art supplies) and unwieldy storyboard to my left arm while my right clutched a cumbrous backpack to one shoulder.

“Hey, move it fat ass!” Yowled a young woman of severe fashion handicap as she rushed past to ascend the ramp.

Excuse me, I am not fat. I am vertically-challenged and blame that entirely on my Mama (whom I resemble greatly, including a shared shortness). Scowling after the rude motherfucker I fantasized briefly about her meeting an untimely demise via the railing of the ferry (Titanic style without the heroic Ken-reproduction to rescue her ) and continued on my merry way. Easy does it, William. Beware deceptive flagstones. Ouch, pebbles! How one is expected to board a ferry with luggage, large rectangular objects, and a disruptive mini-skirt while managing all four on heels is beyond my comprehension. So far beyond that I think I will wear flat shoes next time and perhaps bring a stolen shopping cart.

“Need help, little lady?” Offered an Old Dude (one of such understated cliché that I am forced to capitalize him).

“Oh, that would be so appreciated!” I breathed, gratitude nearly causing me to sit on the cold concrete and sigh.

A pair of good-natured eyes darkened from palest blue to gray as the skin around them tucked in a smile. He must have been a handsome man previous to the inevitable layover of seniority. I had the intense urge to comment on the enchantment of the rhinestone studded gaze but thought better of it and bit my tongue. Few people are comfortable with such observations, as I had learned in due course through a treacherous path of slaps and uneasy smiles. The man flicked spindly fingers at his brow in imitation of tipping a hat and moved forward with strides oddly confident for a post-prime human while I awaited his approach. The great bush of dull silver hair veiling his mouth expanded as he blew out breath to speak and I found myself drawn to stare at it in wonder. In, out. Poof, collapse. Much like Brendan's hair when he headbangs.

“No trouble at all, dear. Here, I'll take that for you.” The whippet-thin stranger rejoined as he reached for my storyboard (and in embarrassment I pried my gaze from his mustache).

A strong stench of cologne invaded my nostrils as he leaned close and I momentarily cited my Grandpa. There was a dispute in scents and the fact that this man was quite tall in comparison to my diminutive Italian forbearer, but he felt familiar regardless. Beaming, I allowed him to relieve my arms of the long pin-up surface and adjusted my balance with practiced ease once the weight departed.

“Thank you so much. I was having trouble walking with all this junk.”

Which is not actually junk. Unless you consider my life to be shit, in which case art supplies are most certainly worthless. I happen to live by the pencil and bleed by the brush. But that is, in fact, a very questionable state of being. I also ramble. Have you noticed?

“No need to thank me, Miss. Just doing my duty to carry on good manners in this world.” My sympathetic companion assured me, ignorant to my excessive inner dialog.

Scrutinizing the momentary stern tightening of the rutted skin between his eyes I presumed that his opinion of modern courtesy was not favorable.

“Well, I'm glad that some people are still decent representations of the human race. I just got shoved by some diviner-than-thou ass–um, jerk.”

“So I saw.” The man chuckled, gesturing toward the ferry to indicate that we should board.

Alright, Will. You can so do this. It is not as if you're a novice. The man waited patiently near the mouth of the ramp, noting aloud with amusement the delicacy with which my steps were maintained.

“Young ladies of your generation just don't have the feminine elegance they used to. You are so free to be like men that you've lost the mystery of womanhood. And the talent of floating in high-heels!” My companion informed me in good humor.

“I suppose that's true for some. I'm just worried about pebbles and my lack of sleep producing offspring.” I assured him, speeding my gait a bit to display that I could walk quite well in feminine shoes.

Quite well until I stumbled over the lip of the ramp, of course.

“Whoa there, miss.” The elderly gentleman soothed, holding firmly my upper arms as I recovered my balance.

“Damn. I need to pay attention.” I berated myself, mortified that my own folly had nearly (literally) been my downfall.

“Lack of sleep, as you said.” He agreed, patting my arm lightly as I righted myself and tugged once more at my skirt hem.

“Yes. I'm capable on a good day.” I proclaimed, stomping on the ramp for emphasis.

And as further defense, it is not as if the adults of my family appreciate me flouncing about the house in my Chick Clothing. I am left to practice on Sundays and occasionally up the stairs that ascend toward Paris' attic. I stamped on the metal incline again, reassuring my own insecurity.

“Quite a firecracker, aren't you?” The man observed, his mustache quivering with concealed laughter.

I don't like firecrackers, actually. They are an incredible safety hazard, as proven when Andy (my second-best friend) attempted to ignite our barbecue and succeeded only in covering the rest of us in ash. In a tone of indignation I shared this opinion with my comrade.

“Strange girl. Come on, I think the workers there are growing impatient.” Old Dude ushered, guiding me up the ramp while the men waiting to remove it glowered.

Oh shit. They must remember me.

I made way up the ramp without further difficulty, although that may have been due in part to the bracing hand of Old Dude that lingered near the small of my back. Ahead I identified the Retro-happy asshat that had insulted my body mass minutes ago. She appeared to be gesturing violently at the Tre-Cool-impersonator of a ticket checker as he attempted to evade her forthright demands. Poor boy. May that woman be eaten by microscopic Ebola festering inside a package of Hostess donuts.

“Are you an artist?” My personal elderly escort questioned as we reached the head of the ramp and boarded the deck.

I shifted my attention from ill-wishing and toward his query while blushing in realization that my work was on display for his criticism. He appeared to be studying my storyboard, which currently featured a German mortician that I had been indulging for the last month or so.

“A student.” I corrected him with a sardonic smile to myself, scrounging through my messenger bag for my Student Pass to present at the checkpoint.

“Oh? Where at?”

“Um... NYAA.” I replied distractedly, accidentally dropping a tube of lipstick that had somehow found its way into my art supplies.

I swooped down to retrieve it before the precious cosmetic was trodden on... and realized too late that the length of my skirt was not coordinated with the distance I bent. Smooth. Very smooth, William.

“That skirt is too short, Miss.” Old Dude coughed, his faded eyes politely diverted as I chased the shitty Mocha Bliss around the much too slick boards.

Now, I am a thoroughly graceful person. There is, however, a significant difference between being graceful and being coordinated. I have developed in life as both supple and perilously clumsy.

“Ouch!” I yelped, having struck my head on the wall of the ferry as I pursued my lost possession.

Pricks of pale light dotted my vision, eating holes in my perceptions of the ground. Momentarily, the lipstick vanished altogether before appearing again further down the deck. Fury seethed inside my food-deprived belly and I stalked after it with all the stealth of a hunter in the Bush. The checkpoint employee of the ferry had come toward me to demand my ticket but quickly spun away and retreated when he caught sight of the way I was advancing on my lipstick. I am a peaceful person that happens to be filled with occasional violent rage, alright?

Crouching as best I could in heels, I pounced.

“Ha! Got you, little fucker!” I exulted triumphantly, snatching the golden cylinder and depositing it the place it had been found.

Ah, the satisfaction of accomplishment. When I returned to Old Dude (who still bore my storyboard), he frowned at me and shifted the corkboard as if preparing to defend himself.

“I'm sorry for all that.” I apologized sincerely, offering what I deemed a charming smile.

“Is this your regular behavior?” He responded curiously, neither denying nor accepting my apology.

“Only when I'm having a terrible day. It's much easier when I'm a guy.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I only carry make-up when I've decided to be a girl for the day.” I clarified, dabbing gloss on my lips as I spoke. “I don't need anything aside from eyeliner when I'm dressed as a boy.”

“I see.”

He did not, in my opinion, 'see' if the closed hollows in his eyes were any indication. I knew that circumspection well. However, I had not gained the wisdom to be careful with my idioms quite yet. Dear Old Dude didn't seem entirely keen on interacting with me any further, as was to be expected of the general populace.

“What… er… are you?” My elderly comrade queried.

A sigh eased itself from my nostrils and I shifted uncomfortably on my heels. “I'm flexible. I guess you might call me bi-gendered.”

“A hermaphrodite?” He retorted with cleverly concealed discomfort.

“No. Undecided.”

His good nature remained outwardly, yet he seemed uncomfortable and expressed a concern for my mental health. Apparently, he was a retired Pharmacist and very knowledgeable about neural disorders. I regretfully pleaded forgiveness for my display of obscenely red underpants although he insisted that it was only my 'eccentric' behavior that had thrown him off balance. Apprehensively I reflected that I had merely been myself and suffered no disorder other than being a self-expressive pack-rat. Therefore, my personality was being insulted. I had the sudden urge to smear my hard-won Mocha Bliss over his porous nose but decided that this was far too unjust.

Apologies were exchanged and we shook hands as I recovered my project from his grasp.

“I'm Will.” I told him as kindly as I could, patting his weathered hand.

It wasn't his fault that he was a constipated senior unable to comprehend those of us who defy the strategy of gender placement.

“Gregory Davies. Hope the rest of your trip is well, Miss Wilhemina.” The formerly named Old Dude disclosed.

Wilhemina? That sounds like some sort of medical procedure.

“And yours.” I replied.

He strode away with his confident, long-limbed gait and I slumped my shoulders moodily. Am I really such an unsettling person? Jesus.

Soon after my little experience I was sought out and interrogated for my Pass, which I presented just as the ferry pulled away from the Shore. The poor elephant-eared young man nodded stiffly as I held it up for his eyes with bitten-down black nails, scurrying away once he had been satisfied. He will most likely retire due to multiple stress-related ulcers at the age of twenty-eight (with compensation pay by the ferry company, I hope for his sake).

The traffic of Jerseyans en route to NYC thinned as seats were claimed and the upper decks flirted with snot-obstructed nostrils. I perched in an empty row, laying my cumbersome storyboard in two of the seats beside me and my messenger bag in the third while my backpack was set at my feet. The smooth motion of the two-story vessel lulled my nerves by a degree and I began to discard my less than desirable morning. After some thought I extracted my battered CD player from the obscure depths of my shredded and pin-speckled backpack and thrust the headphones over my ears. Music is highly therapeutic for the psychotic, stressed, elderly, and pre-natal. I drew breath with a greater grasp of calm as the jangle of The Offspring filled the hollows of my emotional chaos.

As my mood leveled I heaved my messenger bag over the storyboard and into my lap, wincing as the weight settled on my groin. That had better not do damage; I do not need a reduction in penis size. After some searching and murmured obscenities pertaining to the heritage of my luggage I located my sketchbook and drew it out, scrabbling for pencils around art gum, graphing paper, erasers, smudging sticks, and all manner of over-used supplies. With charcoal-stained fingers I returned the bag to its seat and I to my artistic mindset.

Gnawing the edges of my tongue, I sought out a particularly unusual conquest (as I felt bold for such an early hour of the morning). As a rule I am hard to please, considering I am an Aries and prone to gravitating toward the peacocks and parrots of the flock. Yet my eyes were finding little of noteworthiness (even a most miniscule detail that often captures my pencil). Interspersed between a drowsy businessman tucking in to an intimidating frosted donut that scattered large pink crumbs over his pressed charcoal suit, a drowsy mother clad in a fish-print flapper dress supporting herself on the handles of her stroller, my friend Mr. Davies (who appeared deeply immersed in his copy of the Star-Ledger), and a snoozing young man in a red t-shirt and jeans worn loose enough to hold three, there was nothing nearby more eye-catching than moustaches and acne. None of these interested me in particular.

I sighed and slumped to the side, laying my head against the plastic of the window as the hum of the motors continued to burr unaccompanied by the crowd. The cool steel of the frame was slick against my skin as I allowed my cheek to rest on its surface. It smelt metallic and ancient despite the fact that the ferry could not be more than thirty years old, which I admitted sorrowfully was only a few years older than myself. I could not help but sympathize; both of us were vast unattractive tubs of boringness that spent their days being walked over by apathetic people. Here I sat at the age of twenty-one years and eleven months and already my life had sunk into a well of monotony. Wake, be late for the train, get on the ferry, go to school, have lunch with Brendan, more school, come home, homework, dinner, work until dawn, finish homework, pass out from exhaustion. Lather, rinse, repeat. I was engaged in a life that was much the same each day when I ought to have been in my youthful prime! Well, at least I had not been single in my sexual prime.

What pinnacle had I the potential for, anyhow? Why couldn't I have been born beautiful, a social butterfly, or at least with some goddamn height? Why couldn't I have been my brother, rather than reminiscent of a pig, gender dyslexic, and filled to the brim with useless talents that would never amount to a thing? William Depietri is weird (which I inherited from my mother, damn it!). William Depietri is short (again, Mama's fault). William Depietri is fat (Yes yes, I am supposed to be exercising positive affirmations by branding myself vertically challenged). William Depietri is on quite a number of anti-depressants. No one likes William-fucking-Depietri (except Gabby and Brendan and Andy and Daniele and Paris and Mama and... well, I suppose some people like me). End of story.

As I morbidly listed my insecurities in my mind an odor tantalized my nostrils with its sweetness: a deeply refreshing scent of floral perfume and vanilla lotion. Smiling to myself I inhaled discreetly, silently surrendering to my secret lust for feminine fragrances. The lovely indulgence drew closer and I paused in my idle doodling of the character Death to enjoy its passage. Yet it seemed to halt nearby and did not depart down the aisle as I expected it would. I was about to look up and see who was emitting the smell when my head was abruptly seized between two elegant hands in a vice-like grip. I let out a strangled squeak and before comprehension of the situation dawned I found myself being planted with a big, moist kiss to the mouth.

“William!” Someone exclaimed when my facial orifice was released, the bony fingers framing my face knocking my headphones away.

I found myself staring petrified into a pair of large sable eyes set amongst an angular face and more glossy black hair than any human being ought to possess. It was either an inhumanly lovely man or a very regal woman, one whom I knew well. I did, after all, have the misfortune of knowing only one person that pretty.

“Let go of me, fucktard!” I yelped, my heart resuming its beating at a frantic pace.

He frowned and released me with haste, dropping his chin to rest on the back of the seat he had leaned over to kiss me.

“No need to be so caustic, darling. I was only saying hello.”

I allowed my head to hit the cushioning behind me with a groan as my friend's hurt expression struck me square between the eyes. “I'm sorry. You scared me, that's all. I couldn't hear you coming with my headphones on.”

There was no smile to indicate that my apology was accepted, however I did not fail to spy a twinkle beneath the metallic lavender eyelids that lowered in a mild-mannered semblance of indifference.

“I was aiming to surprise you.”

I leaned forward and allowed my triangular nose to bump against his own. This drew a small upturning at the corners of his thin mouth and I grinned and repeated the action.

“That, you inarguably did. Although I did smell you before I saw you.”

One pencil-thin eyebrow rose above the other skeptically. I dropped back to the rough cushioning of the seat behind me to regard him with a wrinkle-nosed face of distaste.

“Are you implying that I stink?” My friend demanded.

“Of vanilla and plumeria.” I retorted, flapping a hand in front of my nose as if the smell were repulsive to me.

“Some people use moisturizer. And even more indulge in these things called 'baths'.” He explained sagaciously while passing two fingers over the plane of his cheek.

I studied him momentarily; flawless alabaster skin, symmetric cosmetics that never bled or smudged, and the seemingly endless waterfall of black hair. He looked perfect, as opposed to my haphazard appearance. I chose not to reassert that I dislike water, assuming that my bedhead and the accompanying slight greasiness spoke for itself. After all, I am a dirty male one half of the time. Daniele, on the other hand, is merely secretly dick-endowed and accompanies his womanly garb with the behavior of an imperial flamingo.

“Oh, no pouting! You're still pretty!” He chuckled, wrapping lean arms about my neck in an awkward embrace over the back of his stolen seat.

I was nearly choked at this angle but was not complaining. I flushed and giggled into his absurdly thick hair (which, I might add, also smelled very nice) as I was petted at the scalp. Daniele seems to think that I am his personal Barbie to dress, coddle, and pair off with ill-suited men.

“Am I being awarded the title of 'Daniele's pet’?” I teased.

“As long as you don't expect to be given 'Daniele's sex toy' as well, because I'm sure Tavis would beat your adorable little ass to pudding.”

I laughed sincerely while attempting to envision willowy, soft-spoken Tavis throttling me for molesting his 'girlfriend'. It was a justified yet unlikely image, seeing as Tavis does not strike me as violence-capable. He’d most likely shatter his knuckles punching a pillow. But perhaps his stoicism is merely coiled rage seething inside a precarious sheath that is much stronger than it appears. Many serial killers surface initially as quiet, pseudo-normal chaps. Why, precisely, a Scholarly conservative is devoted to a Drag Queen is one of the great mysteries of the universe and that may be the ulterior motive.

Daniele and I lapsed into another of our usual easy, completely nonsensical exchanges as the ferry continued on toward the towers of New York City. Our relationship had developed on the grounds that we shared a sarcastic, often disturbing sense of humor and a love of animal-free products. It was effortless that we became lost in conversation about the most absurd subjects. He was perhaps the most thoughtful individual I had ever met, which had made him invaluable to me over the course of the last three years. It was from him (her, as he preferred to be addressed) that I had learnt the art of shameless self-expression; Daniele was blind to the boxes and graphs of American society as so few people manage to become. His warm irony in all aspects of life had been the hand that hauled me from the depression of a high-school reject and into the world of cross-dressing, free speech, and homosexuality.

Which is not to say that I belong strongly to the gay community. I am an Art student and association with the less oppressed sorts is free of charge and fully accessible, but my dearest friends aside from Daniele are male and generally of the heterosexual persuasion. Daniele was older than myself and already a graduate of Rutgers University (which was why I had not expected him to be aboard this ferry) and always had a cluster of varied subjects to discuss (be it which of our neighbors were of Mafia descent or why American cows looked so different from Asian cows). He too was a resident of New Jersey; the neighboring city of Belleville, in fact.

I interrupted a lively description of a Barnes And Noble employee to ask why my friend was making use of the ferry at such an hour. Daniele frowned at me in reproach for a moment before his attention span failed and locked onto a new subject. Apparently, the aforementioned Tavis was unable to commute from Queens to Jersey this coming weekend and Daniele, a duty-free independent journalist, had elected to travel over to see his so-named Man Lover instead. Serene Tavis, still an enigma to me despite that he had been Daniele's counterpart before I met either of them, was housed in Queens and working in the lower levels of the World Trade Center. I chuckled softly at the news and matter-of-fact manner with which it was delivered, imagining the half-concealed glances of worship that Tavis would be offering in gratitude (which Daniele, being medicated for A.D.D., would fail to recognize). One might suspect that they would wither without one another's company. I often envied the root-deep bond which they shared and had formulated many of my concepts of romance from it.

“…and it’s really not─Will, are you listening or wool-gathering?”

“Huh?” I replied cleverly, blinking in bewilderment.

Daniele bestowed upon me the scathing Queen Of Hearts ‘OFF WITH HIS HEAD’ scowl and I smiled apologetically for allowing my attention to wander. One ought never to ignore His Majesty Daniele unless they are prepared to contend with legions of flying monkeys.

“I’m sorry, sugar. I was just thinking happy thoughts.”

“Gay rights?”

Naturally, Daniele must flaunt his rainbow militancy at every available opportunity. Our involvement in the liberal circles of Jersey society was one of his hard-won constants.

“Um… not at the moment.” I admitted with some remorse.

“About what, then? Those awful cartoons that you like?” He responded as if my time were being poorly applied on anything other than radical thought.

“Hey, they’re brilliant!” I protested, although we had been over, under, and through this topic several dozens times by now.

“Honey, Rainbow Bright went out of fashion over a decade ago.”

“Yeah, well… Care Bears is gonna make a comeback. I swear to you.” I exclaimed with a raised fist and maniac grin.

“Whatever, Cheer Bear. Your delusions can be adorable.” Daniele’s slim, magenta-polished fingers patted at my cheek gently.

Daniele and I parted with many kisses to cheeks and regretful goodbyes once the ferry had landed. He exited into the World Trade Center and I to the subway that would take me to Franklin St. I was instantly swept into the tide of commuters on their paths to anonymity, becoming just another Art School kid with non-descript red-gold sweep bangs and a face like an anime character. The bustling streets of New York had always made me a bit uncomfortable with their ferocity, a marching band of diligence on the go that cornered the lost and leisurely in an uncomfortable little compartment of standby. I doubt I could ever stand to live there with the lively abuse of the everyday necessities. Newark was much more habitable although it too had a massive population.

The Subway which transported me from New York Penn. Station to SoHo was even more claustrophobic than the last. I by some means got myself wedged between an obnoxious dancer (or so I gathered) shouting obscenities into a cell phone and an alarmingly clean blond woman who smelt of something dimly Britney Spears. She eyed me up rather frequently, no doubt attempting to discern if the small breasts pressing against her arm were false (which, with my being male, they were). I made an effort to smile apologetically and silently curse my height for the umpteenth time.

“No, you IDIOT! The recital is showing twice on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, not Friday! I KNOW THE DATE!” The dancer was bitching despairingly beside me.

I let a small sigh escape me and tugged my sweater down a bit more round my exposed wrist to conceal a curious crosshatch scab. It was unearthly hot in here, causing my hand to slip on the smooth plastic grip overhead repeatedly. The contrasts of the climate outside and the ventilation within the car were at such odds that I was certain every occupant had become damp (or so my nose indicated). I wondered briefly if we were in fact being misdirected to hell as I was again jostled into Clean Woman (which I promptly apologized to her for). Was the stench of Britney Spears impairing my logic, or was I always this imaginative? I must be. Someone’s heel dipped derisively on my foot and at the present time a rosary was sounding very, very nice. I might as well repent before we reach Hell.

The Subway did, despite my lurid imagination, arrive at its intended destination and by the grace of my thoughts regarding penitence I was able to enter NYAA only five minutes behind schedule. This would have been a Very Bad Thing had I been attending any course other than Anatomical Drawing II. Professor Cambridge was ultimately my favored tutor in college for many disconnected reasons. It was true that I preferred painting and portraiture, but Anatomical Drawing II was the most fun of my classes. The Professor had been indulging students in their creativity for years despite the fact that he was meant to be tutoring a precise curriculum that provided structure awareness.

My teacher wasn’t a prime example of human breeding himself. I often thought of him as ‘Professor Stork’ because he appeared to have a balance of his strangely arranged body that must have been the eleventh wonder of the world. The man stood at a lofty six-five yet weighed about as much as myself, harboring a keen pair of fudge-colored eyes in an angular face the color of old parchment. He was a critical instructor although never without cause. His professional opinion was always on hand and he frequently thrust it upon his students when they least anticipated it. I ought to have disliked this about him, but instead I had grown to cherish his vigor of analysis. Moreover, I was fond of after-class discussions that had little to do with the material and everything to do with David Bowie.

“The shadow at her acetabulae is wider and meets with the greater trochanter, William.” Professor Cambridge corrected, causing my spine to straighten automatically as his voice jarred my concentration.

My comprehension of anatomy was always flagging but he had yet to give up on me. The model (reclining nude on her side as if she were a Goddess of Ancient Rome) allowed the flirtation of a smile to come to her rosy mouth and I felt my cheeks color in humiliation.

“Oh.” I admitted, poising my fingers to spread the shadow into the proper girth.

“You capture such profound emotion, William, but your likeness could use work. At the least, when it comes to the feminine ripeness.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” I apologized, further correcting my mistake.

Amanda, the full woman that modeled on all Thursdays, seemed inclined in the widening of her periwinkle eyes to comment but held her tongue as any proficient model will do.

“I guess this is the problem with hankering for the gentleman.” Professor Cambridge chuckled, his hand clamping onto my shoulder and constricting lightly as I hastened to compare my fresh effort to Amanda’s reality.

“The negative space above her pelvic girdle is a little smaller, isn’t it?” I asked.

My teacher released my shoulder and peered at my newly formed negative space. I made a pouty face at Amanda, silently accusing her of being difficult to sketch. Her belly twitched with withheld laughter and I spied a fellow student casting me an irritated glance for the disruption. At last, Professor Cambridge nodded in approval before moving on to reconfigure someone else’s genius.

“At least you can get the critical parts right. I keep making her breasts the size of cantaloupe!” Sarah, the student to my left, exclaimed with an aggravated jerk of her charcoal stick.

Amanda’s belly twitched again while the rest of us allowed ourselves a snicker.

“You’re allowing Mattel to intrude on your proportioning, Sarah. As an artist, you can stare right at her nipples for as long as you need to get the size correct.” Professor Cambridge announced without glancing up from another student’s work.

Sarah wrinkled her nose in displeasure and attempted to obey, although I knew it must have been rather uncomfortable. Oh, the woes of an Art student. But thorough study of the figure is what models pose for, isn’t it? I offered Amanda a smile, which she returned for only a fleeting flash, and continued to focus on the damn shadows about her hips that I could not seem to conquer as well as I should like. I love women, I really do, but… must they have so many complicated curves?

“Barbie, meet your maker!” Hekate exclaimed from two seats back.

I peered over my shoulder at the platinum-blond woman who was vigorously defeating stereotypes on fast-forward.

“Shoo, Will.” She scolded upon catching me eying her work, never pausing in the vicious sketching.

I faced forward and allowed Paris’ spirited twin to massacre her Bristol paper. The woman was mad about independence and obsessed with feminism (which was odd, considering her twin was a gay man); it showed in her strange, twisted representations of the world around her and in the fashion that she proportioned women.

“Paddy, what a fantastic death abyss.” Professor Cambridge sang, startling us all briefly.

Our teacher had a penchant for randomly serenading us with his off-key impression of Ziggy Stardust. The tunes were catching like a cold in the classroom, particularly since David Bowie had been my first love. I laughed merrily and added the next line, “It’s the heart’s filthy lesson.” in my own ringing tenor. Behind me I saw Hekate grinning as she tucked her platinum hair beneath the cloth headband that held it away from her face.

“Tell the others!” She finished in a baritone.

The rest of the class, quite used to these sorts of outbursts, ignored our chorus.

I hurried down the busy sidewalk weaving as best I could through the thick mill of bodies in their perpetual rat race. 'Excuse me, pardon me, move it asshole's were exchanged in a New York dialect similar to Pig Latin as each man, woman, and child was crushed into the shoulders and hipbones of their neighbor. The increasingly tepid March air held the early promise of summer with a blooming pregnant sun and wet heat that coaxed moisture from the smooth skin of my thighs and underarms.

“Shit shit shit.” I chanted to myself as I glimpsed the thick leather band on my wrist that glowed with the numbers ‘12:16’.

My momentary preoccupation with Professor Cambridge after class had delivered me to the mercy of short lunch breaks and I was in an incredible hurry. I was certain that Brendan would not reprimand me for my tardiness, as few things aside from V8 juice and Bobble-head dolls upset him, but still… my punctuality for lunch was a point of pride in my otherwise belated record. It was a fairly long journey from NYAA to the little Starbucks in Union Square that played host to my friend and I five days a week, a full two-mile dash on foot with stoplights and pissed off Cab Drivers to negate any inclination towards being early. It seemed all the lights were against me today and I knew that the salad in my backpack must be a sadly wilted imitation of lettuce from being smashed against lampposts and other bodies. Just now I was hating my height all the more and wishing to be a more imposing presence in the crowd rather than the aim of numerous elbows. Where was the jolly giant otherwise known as Andy when you most needed him?

In a moment of intuition I had discarded my ill-advised decision to wear heels. During a search of my backpack I discovered a pair of heavily ornamented tennis shoes and shoved my feet into them in preparation for running and dodging. This was a wise move, as I would have been killed by the feet of the crowd had I still been teetering up high. My skirt was so far past being repeatedly flipped up that I had ceased to care who saw my underwear. They were pretty and red, after all. My foot darted in and out of a puddle and I groused to myself as I pushed through a throng of tourists photographing the surrounding buildings.

“The things I do for Brendan.”

A cabbie sauntered to a stop ahead to admit a very professional-looking man and I yearned for the money to take a Taxi. But Art students that live with their mother’s and work part-time at a Barnes and Noble are generally rather poor.

At last, Union Square opened to my right. I rushed toward the corner and the tall, wide windows of the Starbucks. I could see Brendan’s silhouette shimmering inside the glare of the west wall of the coffee shop, his large glasses and forward-aimed short curls stark against the glass. My heel hit the corner of the door as it opened out toward me and I leaned back to let a woman pass. In her wake I darted inside to the cool air of a central-air-system. From his seat, Brendan spotted me (most likely by my black clothing) and waved with one large friendly hand. I smiled and wiggled my fingers at him, side-stepping two men holding scones and coffees. My friend already had a coffee and pastry sitting before him and another hot beverage for me placed at the empty seat. Oh, gratitude.

“Hiiiii!” I sang, plopping my plump ass down in front of him.

“Hey dude. I was wondering if you saw some really hot guy and eloped with him, or something.” Brendan retorted in a droll tone.

I laughed and relieved myself of my backpack and messenger bag on the chair beside me. “No, unfortunately I haven’t seen any lately.”

“All the good ones taken, eh?” The dusky young man leered, rubbing his smooth chin in thought.

“Yeah. By skanky blond panty-dancers.” I joked, pointing at a young Latino woman with blond tresses and skin like the finest caramel.

She was very beautiful, I supposed, but the bobbing breasts and perky curves of her buttocks made my stomach contract in fear.

“Dude, put your finger down before she sees it.” Brendan hissed in his gravelly tenor as his wide nostrils flared in panic.

My hand fell to the table as the young woman glanced our way and I was certain she had seen it. However, she merely eyed us up behind her sunglasses for a moment before returning her attention to the cashier. I could hear Brendan’s sigh of satisfaction that I had not caused a scene nor made a fool of my friend in the process.

“Anyway, I’ve had the most horribly frustrating day. Every time I think it’s beginning to pay me off in good karma, something happens.” I began to disclose while opening my backpack and digging out my Tupperware from amongst the textbooks and loose binder paper.

A bell above the door clanged as customers trekked in and out. I thanked the heavens that I was sitting at a table with my best friend, rather than running through a condensed version of RENT or Sex And The City. When I moved my eyes back to the man opposite me, however, I was met with a look less sympathetic than I would have liked.

“Man, you’re always having days like that.” My comrade in coffee contended, his adam’s apple bobbing as he emptied his cup.

“Not always.” I argued, miffed at having my thunder stolen.

“Well, a lot. Sometimes I feel like your shrink.” Brendan raised his previously untouched croissant and took a tremendous bite out of it.

He certainly did look the part, my mad scientist friend. Though large and muscular Brendan was possessed of small brown eyes behind unbecoming glasses, with a wide button nose and flat broad lips. His hair was like Albert Einstein cross-bred with a clown and he made strange bouncy movements when he was excited (or discussing film, which was his forte). The man was one who seemed always calculating, thinking, and performing brilliant feats while remaining perpetually at ease. Had I been forcing Brendan into the role of scapegoat? Assenting that his statement was true I quietly implored his forgiveness and stared dejectedly at my wilted salad.

“Hey, it’s okay. If I didn’t wanna listen, yaw know, be your friend, I wouldn’t.” He patted the top of my right hand where it lay on the table.

I smiled up at him, pleased that we were in no danger of a quarrel, and proceeded to continue telling him of my day.

“So, like, she called me fat. As if that were my greatest sin!” I complained, spearing a bit of cucumber with the tines of my fork. “Fat ass.”

My companion peered beneath the table, holding his glasses on with one finger. He resurfaced to my inquisitive stare, folding his large rough hands on the tabletop in preparation for some great departure of wisdom.

“William Carmine Depietri, my dearest friend of forever, the best crazy artist I've met, the nicest kid I have the pleasure of knowing... Don't hate me, but I am sorry to inform you that you do have a fat ass.”

It's on, bitch. I glared and considered imparting the same treatment of the cucumber on him. But the expression on his pleasant features was the same kind, open invitation that I had known for the past eight years and I found myself unable to hold my anger. I elected to spare his smooth brawny arms impalement and instead stabbed the salad in front of me.

“Thank you for putting it so delicately, Brendan.” I drawled, picking at the remainder of my meal with disinterest.

A surge of guilt rose up my esophagus as I took a bite of lettuce despite the fact that lunches consisted only of salad these days.

“Will, dude, don't be so hard on yourself. You're working on your weight and shit. Besides, who gives a flying fuck if you're carrying a bit of baggage around the butt?”

I quirked my head to the side to regard him bleakly.

“You aren't making me feel much better.”

Brendan winced and rubbed at his wide features. “Aw shit, sorry. I'm no good at the whole comforting thing. I'm a guy, ya' know?”

“Um... so am I.” I reminded him, although perhaps it was not so difficult to forget when I was clad in distinctly feminine attire.

“Hardly.”

“Hey!”

He ignored my attempt at protest and continued. “And you look real skinny these days. I mean, when we were in high school you were real big. But now you're kinda little. You just have a ghetto ass.”

I knew he was lying out of tenderness but chose not to bat the ball back at him. “All the better to shake my booty with, my dear.”

“Just don’t shake it at me. I’ve got enough butts in my face with the retards at school.” A small shudder accompanied his words.

“Oh?” I inquired, crunching on a bit of carrot.

Brendan sighed and rolled his eyes, twiddling his thumbs on the smooth green tabletop.

“We’re supposed to be working on our final projects, but these asses are all doing dumb shit that should only count for a regular submission. Like, this one girl is doing the ‘New York Fashion Scene’. As if that were fucking prolific!”

My eyebrows drew together in skepticism. I may be gay but fashion is about as familiar a subject to me as the plumbing of a Swedish public restroom.

“And this other dude is trying to do some documentary about a guy that thinks he’s a super-hero. He’s called ‘Plastic Man’ and he goes around digging all sorts of shit out of dumpsters to recycle it.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” I reasoned, pleased to hear that someone besides me was caring for the environment.

“Not the way he and the filmmaker go about it. It’s comical when it’s meant to be serious and it totally doesn’t work.”

“What’s your project on?” I asked, shifting the subject before he worked himself to bellowing.

“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking of going camping down in the Pine Barrens on weekends. You know, make a documentary about the contrast between city and rural life in Jersey.”

“What if the Jersey Devil eats you?” I teased, wrinkling my nose as if the thought didn’t sit well with my stomach.

“That’s why I thought I’d see if Danielle would come with me. He’d scare it away with those fake eyelashes.”

“Shouldn’t you do it on something… I don’t know… more shocking?” I suggested thoughtfully while nursing my coffee (which had long since gone lukewarm).

Brendan smeared butter from a tiny tub unto the remains of his croissant and stuffed the flaky culinary masterpiece into his mouth. There it was ground thoroughly as he contemplated my proposition, his jaws working in oval motions while he tugged at a lock of his wigged out (pun-intended) hair.

“You’re really naïve at times, kiddo.” He admonished gently.

Naturally, I didn’t understand.